


Stormdancer

by searching4neverland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searching4neverland/pseuds/searching4neverland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she first caught sight of the babe's corvine tuff of hair on that tiny little head, a stab of panic buried itself between her ribs, drowning the joy. How could it happen? She had calculated everything, drank the tea, counted the moons… Where did she go wrong? But it didn't matter...all she could do now was weep - for the first time in her life without regret and with shame - weep heavy tears of blood that burned her cheeks. Tears for the child of her body that could not be allowed to live to see its first nameday.</p><p>Tease: And what if one of Cercei Lannister's children was a trueborn Baratheon? It would make the condition unique, as far as the princes of the Iron Throne children go...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The royals

_**** _

 

_**1.** _ _The royals_

_"In general, the more dysfunctional the family the more inappropriate their response to disclosure. Never expect a sane response from an insane system."  
― Renee Fredrickson_

 

The North is beautiful in an untamed way that Myrcella usually found fascinating and reminiscent of the harsh mountains of the stormlands (admittedly up here its colder though, and tipped with white snow even though it was summer) and its thick forests… but she is much too cross to enjoy it fully now. After a week in the cart with her mother, she had finally had enough: It was either get out and pass the rest of the journey on a horse, earning herself a smarting rump and all kinds of saddle sores,  _or_  throttle her mother with her own hands.

_Or p_ _erhaps with one of those ridiculous golden-lion necklaces she insist on wearing._

Perhaps the lack of air would make her quiet for once… but Myrcella knew enough to doubt that. Cercei Lannister would never go quietly. In fact, the princess was altogether sure that even in her death-brushing moments, her queenly mother would still be sneering over godforsaken Starks, the general nullity of the countryside and  _especially_  of the northern one, beastly people without manners, finesse, or reasons for wasting the air around her etcetera, etcetera. The most usual were the little huffs and puffs about the carriage, the noise, the men, the mud, the rain - even the  _sky_  was not to her liking! Too many clouds, too grey, so dismal. And  _then_ , once the little quips over the northerners were exhausted for the day (or the very moment the queen's eyes settled upon her daughter, depending on how foul her mood was) there came Myrcella's most favourite set: why is your hair such a mess, why didn't you put on your corset, where is that dress I had your handmaiden lay out for you? Stand straight, don't smile, don't look so stern, don't be too charming, Lannisters do honour to their name, don't talk to the guards, don't smile so much… the only one missing was don't bloody breathe so loud! No doubt in timer her mother would get to that as well. But let's not forget the and the memorable  _'oh he brought me along just so that this cold could kill me, I swear it.'_

_If only we were so lucky_ , Myrcella often caught herself thinking, much to the proof that, despite all the lessons shoved down her throat since birth, on the ways of being the perfect lady and princess, despite having quite a broad education and the very best of opportunities for refinement; despite, in short, of being trained for courtly life like a mare is bred for racing, there was still a storm very much alive in her… which Myrcella knew was just a blithely poetic way of saying she was as bad-tempered as her mother could be when she was pushed. A comparison for which Myrcella did not care for at all, considering how very unpleasant this journey was being because of that very same woman.

One of the things that had grated on the princess' nerves more was her mother's inconsistency with her own character: considering her usually so composed and stoic nature, Myrcella had not expected her mother to be quite so vocal in her complains… which of course was a serious misjudgement on her part: her mother was not the kind of woman to let her displeasure pass quietly. Of course she would complain: in sarcastic quips and demeaning comments, but that was her queenly way of grating on everyone's nerves. Nobody should dare be happy under the thundering weight of Cercei Lannister's frown. No one had the right to - if the queen was miserable, the whole world should share her misery… Which was why Myrcella was dead set against uttering even a peep of complaint over her aching body, or anything really, short of a fatal wound.

She was however conscious enough of her bad temper and foul humour to reluctantly decline when uncle Renly had asked her to ride by him and some of the stormlords he had brought north as his company, telling him that she would join their party shortly… shortly enough to get her nerves under firm control, that is. She didn't want to be anywhere near civilized company until she could behave accordingly without wincing with the effort – and she would never forgive herself for even the slightest hint of disrespect to her uncle's bannermen, who had ever been welcoming towards her.

Myrcella thought back at the oppressive feel of those green eyes upon her. Her mother had a talent for making people feel small. Whether it was born or bred or won with her crown, Myrcella did not know, but she did know how effectively it had always worked. That look had catapulted her right back to her infancy, made her feel smothered and helpless and weak… and perhaps  _that_  was the true reason why she was so angry, and not her mother's complaining. Being trapped in that small space with her mother had been…  _Gods_ , even now, on the open field with on her horse, the thought of it almost started Myrcella's heart on a gallop again. It had felt like drowning! It had felt like the embodiment of all her childhood, upon her all over again. She had felt six years of age again, forever striving, forever failing. Trapped in that cart with her mother's smoothing presence and ever watchful eye, ever disapproving frown.

There seemed to be no way to escape the queen! That her mother could reach her everywhere and see everything had been one of Myrcella's deepest fears as a child… but she was not a child any longer.

She was almost a woman grown now, ready to be wed even (something that she should be, any day now and,  _hells_  but she was looking forward to that! To finally leave and never have to call the capital home again!). She was her own person, with her own mind and the ability to yield it and her mother's cold eyes had no such power over her as they once did. Myrcella had stopped dancing to that tune some time ago. Given up upon it really and in that resignation, she had found… an astounding, heady freedom. Freedom from trying! Freedom from the Red Keep and her mother's rules and impossible standards – a freedom to find her own self, and what an shocking revelation that had turned out to be! Freedom,  _finally_ , from the grief of never being able to meet them, from forever being the disappointment to the only woman whose love mattered… until she finally resolved that it wouldn't.

That had been the day the child in her had died: when she had finally admitted to herself that her mother did not love her, and probably never would. She had had two and ten namedays on her back. It might seem too soon for anything so complicated to pass around a child's head, but to Myrcella, it couldn't have happened soon enough.

Oh she had despaired for it deeply… and it was that way: crying with wretched sobs that stole her breath away, that her uncle Stannis had found her. She had been confined to her rooms yet again after making a mess of dinner with the ambassadors of the south and embarrassing Joffrey in front of half the great lords of the Reach and the West. Her mother had been  _furious_ … Myrcella could still remember it. The Red keep had been full of souls and she had felt alone and forgotten and hated. So she had cried and cried until she seemed she would never stop, without understanding fully what it was she was crying about, but knowing with certainty that she was alone in this world and tha tit made her despair. Loss of hope seemed loss of life.

It was how her uncle Stanis had found her. She had never asked him why he'd come looking for her, she was never going to. He had come and found her crying as if the world was ending, picked her up from the ground and settled her to sit on her bed, handling her with gentleness expected for a child, and firmness that was intrinsic to his being. He had wiped her face clean of tears then, ordered her sternly to stop crying. She would have, if she could. But though Myrcella had bitten her lips to stop her sobs, and fisted her hands on her lap with the strain, stubbornly trying to comply like she had so many other times, tears had kept flowing. She could no longer control them than she could make the sun stop rising.

But her uncle had said nothing, waiting for her to speak first… and perhaps that had been wise of him.

' _Mother hates me.'_  she'd said to him between tears with the kind of certainty that she didn't even know she'd had until the words finally left her lips. It had certainly felt that way at the time.  _'Joffrey dislikes me and father ignores me. I am a princess and nobody loves me…'_

Her uncle had looked at her strangely then. There had been a fierceness to his eyes that was uncommon in her usually so cool uncle. He had frightened her then… but not enough. And she had been glad for it afterwards.

In two day's time she had been travelling for Dragonstone.

Myrcella would never know how her uncle had convinced her father but she had been unbelievably happy that he had. Which was why her unyielding and stern uncle would forever hold a special place in her heart (and why her mother hated the man with such a burning passion perhaps…), why she made sure he was always aware of her love and gratitude and how much what he did had meant to her, no matter how stern and unyielding Stanis Baratheon could be. His fairness was reward enough for his unyielding nature and though everyone said he was impossible to love, Myrcella loved him fiercely precisely for that: his fairness had saved her life, and she was not quick to forget that. She would have loathed to own anyone else such great a debt, but it was Stanis she owed it to, and there was a certain safety in that: most things with him were certain, the way the world around him could never make them.

And now, after all that, after how much she had fought to get out of the claws of the capital and not go back there for too long, she was back with her royal family… which was not the problem, strictly speaking. Her  _mother_  had always been the crux of her issues and, as much as she felt unnatural admitting it, Myrcella could more easily find happiness away from her. Which was why travelling with such close quarters with the queen for such a long time, uninterrupted… well, it had been a shock to her senses, Myrcella could admit to that. Perhaps she had not handled it very well.

Four years… four years out of the Red Keep, trying with any kind of excuse imaginable to stay away. Dragonstone, Storm's End, the stormlord's keeps, the westerlands, even the Reach, on occasion… she had visited them all. She was the wondering princess, the one that wanted to see everything, people said with a smile. The curious soul, forever restless. They thought that she travelled holdfasts and homes of familiar lords because she wanted to know her subjects, some even treated her as an emissary to the crown. They liked that the king would sent his own daughter to listen to their troubles and cares – and Myrcella flied over the insult implicit to that, that thought the 'heir and the spare' were too precious to risk, the princess was more expendable than both her brothers. Myrcella didn't care. She promised to send word to the king, and always did, though she knew those letters never graced her father's eyes. There was no harm in letting people believe what they were more comfortable believing. The truth was always so much uglier… and  _her own_  truth was one she had never shared with anyone. But that she would go so far as to say that she preferred the Rock and her grandfather's company to the capital, supposedly told a longer story than any she might tell, to those that cared to look… but few enough paid attention to the princess when she was out of the capitol.

Myrcella looked back at the cart travelling much ahead of her. She would  _not_  go back into it. She would have to put her foot down gently over it, as her uncle Renly to intervene for her, maybe playa trick or tow to have his men call for her company – they called her the Lady of Storm's end after all, to Renly's great amusement… but she would  _not_  go back into that cart, even if they dragged her by the hair!

"I can tell your thoughts are full of violence."

Myrcella huffed but said nothing. Her golden uncle, the most fearsome sword in the seven kingdoms, more commonly known as the Kingslayer to those that didn't much like him - which was everyone or thereabout, seeing that he had a natural talent for being an enormous ass (that he was a funny one did nothing to absolve him) - chuckled by her side and brought his horse even closer to her, his voice lowering.

"She is your mother you know. I'm sure it's written somewhere in some holy book that it's a sin to enjoy thoughts of murder when it comes to your blood."

Myrcella turned narrowed eyes to him, but her smile was sweet (or at least she tried to keep it that way, though she knew that she looked like an a scorch-tailed whenever she scowled.)

"Forgive me sir, if I don't take your word for that." she said coolly, though her uncle kept smiling for all her troubles. "When was the last time you ever touched anything remotely alike to the Seven-Pointed Star anyway?"

Sir Jamie pretended to think about it. "I think it was when I beat some boy in the head with it, many years ago. I was still living at the Rock."

Myrcella rolled her eyes. "Very nearly two decades ago then. I'd say you've officially lost the right to preach anything upon me since any septon worth his robes would cringe at you even mentioning their holy words in any kind of context."

Her uncle laughed freely and then made to ruffle her hair. Myrcella let him. She'd have to do her braid again the moment she had the chance anyway, some shorter strands had already escaped and were curling about her face. Every time that happened, every time another strand ended up in her eyes, or in her mouth or –  _Oh, seven hells!_  – in ( _up!_ ) her nose, tickling most grievously, she wished she weren't so vain and actually had the nerve to hack it off entirely like one of the famed Mormont warrior-women and be done with it. Her queenly mother would surely have a conniption off  _that_.

Myrcella felt herself pause, and a wicked smile started stretching her lips.

_Now that I think about it…_ the idea seemed to grow its own kind of charm.

"I sense trouble. What's that devious little smile for, huh? Not scheming ways to end my sisters reign are you? I'd be duty bound to stop you, princess or no."

"Oh, come now, sir. If I was truly bent on assassination do you really think you could stop me?"

His smile is razor sharp, as her own – or so people say sometimes. "I'd die trying."

"What's this I hear? Not even six moons off age and already plotting murder?"

Myrcella rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless as uncle Tyrion came close to them, his mismatched eyes smiling at her with their unusual wicked mischievousness.

"What can I say…" Myrcella replied blithely, the picture of indifference complete with a shrug. "Must be my Lannister heritage taking over me."

She didn't see their faces – it would rather ruin the effect if she tuned to look at them now, after such a finely delivered line – but she did hear their muffled chuckles. Or rather, Sir Jamie bothered to muffle his laugh. Her uncle Tyrion didn't much care either way.

"And she was such a sweet babe once." Sir Jamie said with mock regret.

Of course, uncle Tyrion world not be left out of this. "Yes, I remember. Such a smart little girl, even at two namedays, waddling about, pulling on everyone's hair and yelling out little choiced words she learned from her favourite uncle."

Myrcella snorted. She had been told of that story: of how Tyrion Lannister had ended up banished from the Red Keep because a two year old Myrcella had crawled into her mother's lap and said  _'cunt'_  loud and clear, for all the royal ladies to hear. Gods, her mother must have been… was there even a word to describe it? There were those who said she'd wanted to cut out uncle Tyrion's tongue – which would have been a shame, since uncle Tyrion was almost as amusing as he was insolent. On a note that perhaps granted her maturity, Myrcella admitted to herself that she would have probably done the same thing to anyone daring to teach  _her_  daughter the same… but that didn't make picturing the scene less funny! She was sorry too, that he had not been there when she was growing up. The Red keep would have been less a lonely sad place if he had been there from time to time, Myrcella was sure: her uncle seemed to be oblivious to the queen's constant displeasure with her daughter after all. Or perhaps it was  _because of it_  that he went to such lengths to make her his favourite… If it were so, Myrcella would not find it surprising. After all, she was the first to admit that she liked the way her mother's face soured every time she saw them laughing together.

"I remember how cute she looked practicing her curtsies over and over in the mirror, tripping about her skirts every time." Uncle Jamie shot back, and that was when Myrcella rolled her eyes. She'd better put an end to this before it became a concert. Where was uncle Renly when you need him?

"As if  _you_  were born graceful." Myrcella murmured, and sure enough they hear her but once the caught momentum they were more unstoppable than a boulder down a mountain.

"And just  _look_  at her: who could ever guess that beneath that pale-milk skin and wide innocent eyes there hides such nefarious intent."

Alright, that was enough! Myrcella turned to her uncles, blithering idiots the both of them… and smiled, putting on her most innocent face.

"Why, I am astounded that you have lived to get so old, the both of you, with those little heads of yours submerged by such bizarre notions. You should both know by now that the appearances of this world are precarious things." Her uncles were looking at her with amusement and mischief in their eyes and she knew that she didn't look so much different.

"Take sir Jamie for an example: one has but to look at you in all that pretty armour and glorious face, to think you the greatest knight in all the seven kingdoms." Myrcella let her lips stretch in a contented smile, sticky sweet as honey. "But then you open those pretty lips and within the space of your first three words… the illusion shatters."

Her uncle laughed heartedly and Myrcella even heard sir Aerys stifle a chuckle too. She gave her sworn shied a sidelong glance, smiling widely herself.

"You wound me princess – and without any right to do so, since I'm not the reason why your little royal bum is smarting."

Myrcella didn't even bother to gasp at his insolence – she skipped right to shoving him with an  _'Oh, be quiet!_ ' and almost sliding off her own saddle herself since he was as unmovable as a stone wall. All her shove did was make him laugh, which, admittedly, had been the point. It occurred to her much later that during the whole time she was bickering with her uncles, her mood had lifted considerably and she thoughts of her mother had been banished out of her mind completely - so much so that it was easy to smile to the queen the next time they stopped to set up camp and she didn't mind when her mother reminded her sternly that, while she may be allowed to ride out with her father and uncles, she would be arriving in Winterfell inside the carriage – as it was proper for a princess. Myrcella nodded and all the while thinking that she would thank her uncles when she next saw them, for unwinding her just enough. Had they not, her mother's order would have tuned into another fight between them. She was very grateful for her silly, ridiculous uncles on occasions such as those.

TBC::


	2. Stormdancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: super-selfindulgin chapter. but please remember that its from Robb's pov, and he is a boy after all. and not at all above being charmed. I have left out the names of the Lords (marked with an X) because this was written in a hurry and they dont matter anyway, they could be anyone.
> 
> AN: Robb's pov was heavily influenced by Jon's chapter in Game of Thrones, especially his impression of the King.

_**2.** _ _Stormdancer_

_"You must find... someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered, someone whose fingers are a poem."_   
_Janet Fitch, White Oleander_

_"Beauty is no quality in things themselves: It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty."_  
 David Hume

When the royal procession came inside the courtyard of his home, Robb took their company in one by one. He looked at the crown prince and didn't miss the way the golden boy immediately eyed his sister, as if he'd been thinking about her all along. His previous opinion of the princeling only solidified then. His eyes moved to take in the Hound, Joffrey Baratheon's sworn shield, the brother of whom was the Mountain… and all the realm knew what he'd done. In came lords and the members of the court, the Kingsguard and  _finally_ , the king himself.

The peerless Robert Baratheon that his father had spoke of so much: tall and proud, a giant among princes, his father had said. The fiercest warrior of all seven kingdoms, the demon of the Trident.

Before he had to kneel with the rest of the household, Robb caught a glimpse of the man. The King… he was just a man of course, and a fat one at that, with a bushy beard and a red face beneath it, looking as if he was half drunk already. There was nothing of the king of his father's stories in this man and Robb wished he could turn and see the look on his father's face, when he saw his friend so changed. But he couldn't do that so instead he chose to look at the rest of the procession: the guards and sword shields and – there he was, the queen's golden twin, the Kingslayer – who looked like the knights Sansa talked about should look: tall and proud and golden… and judging from that smile on the man's face, arrogant as well. The queen stepped out and she was as beautiful as everyone says she was, with hair long and shiny as polished gold, skin warm and sun-kissed… and eyes as hard stones cut from emeralds. Gods, the coldness of her is even in that smile of hers. It makes Robb stand a little straighter, shoulders a little tenser. You could look at her and truly believe that she is queen, without even the need for a royal crown on her head.

But then someone else steps out from behind the queen and Robb loses interest for her royal highness.

Princess Myrcella Baratheon. He knows it is her without needing to be told. She could be nobody else, after all. She is almost as tall as the queen herself, and though there is an echo of her mother's features in her face, it is drowned by all the differences. She is young and fresh and as bright as the queen seems to be cold: her eyes shine, curious and brimming with an expression that seemed ready to transform into a smile at any moment, the blue of them deep, so different from his bright Tully eyes. Everyone said that the Baratheons had the deep waters of Shipwrecker's Bay in their eyes… looking at the princess, Robb could believe it.

Unlike the queen, she was pale as snow, her long hair of such a dark ebony that it looks almost black; it fell in smooth waves to her waist and shined like a raven's wings. Robb doesn't know whether to call her beautiful. She seems too… no, beautiful would not be the word for it. It feels inappropriate. The queen is beautiful, easily so. Her daughter is something else. The contrast between that pale skin and dark hair makes up for a bold sort of allure, one that whoever looking was bound to either love or hate. She looked like a slip of a girl, despite her height and altogether her features made up a mixture of fractures and strong contrasts, making her into a striking sight, rather than the outright gorgeous figure and face her mother cut…

But whether you liked what you saw or not, the princess was quite an arresting vision and Robb… he found that it was impossible to look away from her. When her eyes found his however, Robb learned that there was weight underneath her stare and that she could make you feel it: she smiled out of courtesy to him… and then when their eyes held, he saw the curiosity spark in her and her smile turned crooked, her stare more deliberate. As if daring him to keep looking. He already knew she had a sense of humour just by the way one single raven-eyebrow twitched upwards as their eyes held.

When she came to greet them, she kissed his mother's cheeks with a smile that seemed sincere and said all the right, pleasant things. Perfectly courteous and such a lady that Robb knew Sansa was half in love with her already. Then she came to him and offered him her hand, pale and soft. When her long fingers rested in his, he felt the cold of them. She was as chill as ice when his lips kissed her knuckles and he couldn't help the small smirk, though perhaps it would have been wiser if he did hold back. But the thought of her thin southern blood freezing in her veins up here in the north made him smile.

He bid her welcome to the North and she thanked him for the hospitality – all as he'd been taught to - and all the while, her dark blue eyes looked at him with borderline-eerie awareness, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Perhaps she did… though he fervently hoped that she did not know it all, or she'd have him thrown in some dungeon for half the things that passed his head as he kissed her knuckles lightly, feeling the heat of his own palm seeping into hers.

ooo

When he next sees her they are about to enter the feast hall with the rest of his family. The king enters first, escorting his lady mother, then his father with the glacial Lannister queen; the crown prince and Sansa in his arm looking completely taken by Joffrey's face… and then it  _her_  turn.

Unlike the queen, her hair is not up in intricate southern styles, but unbound around her shoulders – with only her frontmost locks tied in a circled to leave her face free of them - perhaps because she is a maiden still and has a right to that freedom: the raven waves fall heavy in front of her and down her back, over a gown that is of the boldest shade of red Robb has ever seen. Its brighter than even Sansa's hair and seems to absorb the candlelight and not release it at all… and it clings to her in a way that cannot help but draw his eye. The princess was a slender thing, her body seemingly trapped between a girl's and a woman's, but that dress clung to her faithfully, making the most of every subtle curve: from her breasts to narrow waist and barely-rounded hips, flaring into heavy skirts on the floor. The golden embroidering shines subtly and like true gold, framing the high collar that only allows for an inch of skin under her collarbones to show and no further, choosing to expose the line of her shoulders instead, something which Robb had never realized could be a more tantalising sight than even the deepest of necklines.

It takes him a moment to realize he's staring - and quite openly as well - until a small teasing smile curves her thin lips and she raises one inky brow at him, amused perhaps by his antics. He immediately closes his mouth (he had not even realized it was hanging open) and steps closer to offer her his arm and follow out in the Great Hall for the feast. She moves to put her hand in his and Robb distracts himself by choosing to be grateful that her sensational gown as narrow sleeves because had it not, escorting her to the high table would have been much more of a chore than it already is.

"I take it that you like my dress, Robb Stark."

It's a statement, not a question and when he dares a look at her he sees that she is smiling softly, looking straight ahead. He should have known of course: she is a  _princess_  and though not such a radiant beauty as her mother, she is still pretty enough to have men and boys admire her for her title and her own self both. Perhaps she even knows that; she certainly does know what she makes him think and where his eyes do wonder, as well as she knows that he likes her dress and her figure. Most importantly of all, she seems to like making use of the things she knows – in this case, probably to make him sweat his tunic a little for being so unabashed in his wandering eye. One glance at her face, even a cursory one, tells him that he is just needling him for fun. He had not imagined, after mother's sharp reminders of manners and propriety at all times with the royal family, that he would be faced with a princess who liked to tease.

But Robb says nothing until she is upon her seat. He draws the chair back for her, as his father has done for the queen, and she hold her hand for him to take as she sits, as its custom and she turns to him with a smile, no doubt to thank him. What is  _not_  part of custom at all however is that he bows and very swiftly leaves a kiss on her knuckles - her surprised eyes catch his and hold.

"You look very beautiful princess." is all Robb says. Not the most original thought he'd ever had, but truthful to the core.

She has no doubt heard better versed compliments, laced with all kinds of poetry, but those have ever been things that have sparked little interest in Robb, and he would rather speak plainly than say the same things others have spoke before him (even if he were capable of it). Besides, he wonders what she will think if he pays her the compliment of sincerity and truth, as naked as he can make them.

Her eyes show him surprise (and how much subtle it is, how much more controlled; so different from her smiles and polite interest and even her teasing, that for a moment Robb wonders if  _that_  so tightly controlled emotion is the only  _true_  emotions he has seen on this stranger's pretty face so far… but that's a thought too fancy for such a place and such a time, so he tucks it away) and that wondering brow of hers, ever quick to rise as if in challenge, quirks at him. But he has stepped back before the princess has the time to say anything, it happens before she can even open her mouth, so she follows him across the room and in return, gives him a nod, a most serious one at that, looking at him as if she is trying to calculate him without the benefit of even knowing him.

They are two blank pages trying to read each other, Robb realizes, but the hall is full, the voices are loud and merry and he knows he will have a good time. And when the dancing starts, he  _will_  ask her for a turn.

ooo

She converses with all about her, the Stark girls and the other girl, Jeyne Pool, the ladies of the table and the boys, Lord Stark youngest sons. They are charming and lovely and stubborn, and at their lapse of manners Myrcella can only be amused because she loves the freedom it implies. She eats little perhaps, but it's because she'd rather talk. Sansa is such a sweet girl, and it's hard to believe she is not as young as her thoughts make her to be.

The little one, Arya… she is difficult to judge and seems not to have the highest opinion of Myrcella – which obviously provokes the princess enough to want to change her mind. So while Sansa and Jeyne speak in hushed whispers about what can only be her handsome princely brother, Myrcella leans in close to the younger Stark girl and asks her what she likes to do with her time. Perhaps it's a hunch, but there is something wild and untamed about the girl even though she has not one hair amiss on her head. It's those dancing eyes, Myrcella thinks, that mischievous smile. It reminds her of herself, what she could have been, if the Red Keep had not been as stifling as it was, if her mother had not been the woman she was.  _I could have been you_ , Myrcella thinks as she looks at the little girl and it makes her both sad and smiling _. I could have been many things_ , and with that she closes that argument… and finally gets the young Stark talking about how she likes riding and running and swords and bows, that she is terrible at sewing – something which Arya confesses in a murmur, so Myrcella says that she hates it too, to make the girl feel better (it  _works_! The girl gives her a full smile so wide that Myrcella swears those dark grey yes are sparkling!) – and that she doesn't like the septa's lessons cause they're boring, which Myrcella laughs.

The frankness of the girl is astounding… and so very charming. It would be easy to be offended: Arya does not seem to be able to mince words, but Myrcella is not so delicate and she appreciates boldness in others almost as much as she cultivates it in herself.

Myrcella bristles with excitement when the tables start being cleared and the dance-floor is opened. She so longs to dance, and from across the room, she catches uncle Renly's eye and they shine with silent laughter and understanding.

"Do you like dancing Arya?"

The girl pouts almost. "I like it fine, but I'm not so good at it."

Myrcella's smile widens. "Don't you worry about that. Give these men some time and they'll be so deep in their cups nobody will notice. Even if you knew the steps perfectly you'll still trip from time to time."

She watches Arya smile back to her and decides then and there that this little girl has the loveliest smile of all the household. Myrcella winks at her and then gets up, heads for her brother's seat, where Joffrey is looking stiff and bored out of his mind. That was not bound to go well, Myrcella thinks, but she still smiles widely at him and reaches to take his hand.

"Dear brother, will you open the dances with me?" she sais gently, smiling widely. Joffrey likes pretty things.

Her brother grumbles. "I don't feel like dancing." he says and then gives a cursory look at their mother, whose smile is frozen in her face. Why does she even bother, Myrcella wonders. Everyone can see she is as miserable as she looks. That smile only makes her seem more frigid.

"So you would leave me in the hands of those with inferior skill? Come now brother, you're the best dancer I know." because she knows Joffrey and she knows how to stir him. He likes to be admired, his ego is such a frail little thing… and such a hungry things, by turns. As expected, her brother responds to the compliment better than to the invitation and his scowl lessens a little.

"Fine then, if I must. But only for you." he say and gets up with great show.  _Oh brother mine…_ she thinks with an internal sigh, but smiles wide none the less.

Her mother stops her with a minute raise of her chin. It's all she needs to turn Myrcella's head – she hates that its so, but she cannot help it. The response is immediate, ingrained. Not even the longest time away from her mother can erase it.

"Don't make a spectacle of yourself." the queen says softly enough for her alone to hear, and Myrcella tries to keep her smile in place even though now her expression is glazed, as blank as her mother's smile.

This woman is what royalty is meant to be, Myrcella thinks, and then some more on top of that. But can she not enjoy a little good fun every once in a while? Must she made it so hard for all about her to smile?

But then the music starts, and Myrcella wills herself to think of Cercei Lannister no more.

ooo

They are a handsome pair together like that, the golden prince and the raven princess with the flaming dress. The prince sulks like a boy but his sister is the liveliest thing in the room and soon her good humour get the better of her brother as well. They spin and jump and dance around each other, changing partners and coming back together, but where the princess radiates an undeniable warmth, as if whoever she lays eyes on is someone whose company she would enjoy, the crown prince has eyes only for his sister and it's for her that he saves all his smiles. Her brother retires after the first turn, but just in the moment when he seems to be suggesting to his sister to get back on the high table, her uncle, Lord Renly, sweeps her away in the throng of the dancers again and the princess' laugh sounds in time with the music. She looks back to send a kiss to her brother from the air, and smiling as her uncle spins her about.

The commotion heightens – the king is making a fool of himself, utterly drunk and dallying with the serving girls right under the queen's nose – whose smile looks frozen on her face. But Theon tells him its normal, that the King is completely shameless and gives a total of zero fucks about the queen's honour apparently. Robb notices the halting look this brings on the princess' face, but it's gone from it quick and he is probably the only one who's taken notice, and only because he's been paying too close attention to her. Theon teases him relentlessly about it, but Robb is only half listening. More dancers join in and Robb wonders if he'll ever be able to catch her holding still enough to ask her for a dance.

She does back to the high table a few times and always come back alone. Her brother does not want to dance anymore it seems, he is quite content to sit back and sulk in his seat. So the princess brings back both his sisters and offers herself up as a partner. Sansa smiles and blushes but she can't say no, Arya laughs merrily without a care in the world and all three of them dance in the middle of the dance-floor, everyone making room for them as they spin around each other, laughing without a care in the world – even Sansa seems a little more carefree than usual.

She persuades her uncle, the queen's twin for a dance – and they look striking together, so much so that Robb is suddenly very glad the Kinglsayer is her uncle and a Kingsguard besides. To the great amusement of some and not so well mannered japes of others, the princess dances a slow turn with the Imp as well. Her merriment is as sincere with him as it was with his golden brother and the Imp has an indulgent smile on his face, as if he is enduring it to make the princess happy and he looks nowhere but in his niece's eyes the whole time. She dances with her little brother, prince Tommen before he is sent off to bed with a guard – she picks him up and turns about the floor, laughing - dances even with Bran, who blushes and is full of smiles. Robb sees her try to persuade Rickon too, and feels like laughing – because his little brother is too wild to ever allow himself to be picked up the way the princess did with her own brother. But he still blushes red when the princess kisses his cheek and leaves him to play with Shaggydog under the table.

She dances a turn with the members of the court and with his father's bannermen and after each turn she manages to charm them well enough with smiles and good humour. For each of the queen's dour looks, the princess has a smile and it makes people gravitate around her with the same ease the seem to gravitate around her uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, of whom the princess seems fond of and very close to. He catches her speaking with her uncle and some of his lords – stormlords, Robb reminds himself and notices that she speaks with those grown men as easily as she does with his sisters, with her brother. Theon tells him that she is as familiar with Storm's End and Dragonstone as she is with the Red Keep apparently, since she has spent the last four years of her life mostly away from the capitol and travelling the south. It's obvious from the way the lords of the stormlands look at her that they like were all too well.

He catches fragments of conversations every now and then and the one that proves lucky is the one he catches by mistake.

"… seems that you have to make up for your family's unwillingness to join the festivities, Princess."

The princess' chuckle is low, but he hears it. "So it seems, Lord X. I am resolved in fact, to dance all night, and with every person in this hall at least once."

And that is his opening, finally. Robb has been making enough of a study of her after all.

"Might I ask for the next turn then, princess?"

She turns to find him there and her smile widens in the same moment it fell when she heard his voice. Her eyes sparkle.

"You may, my Lord."

And so it is that she finds herself in his arms for the first time. The silk of her dress lets him feel the heat of her body as if he were touching bare skin and the thought alone is enough to fluster him a little. She is warm and smiling, and he likes the feel of his hand on her small waist. She is a graceful dancer, but that he already knew. He doesn't risk pulling her too close, it's too obvious, but he gets close enough to catch a whiff of her scent. It rises with the heat of her body from her breasts and fills his nose, and if he'd had the privacy of his own company – and hers- he would have told her that she smells almost as lovely as she looks. He wonders, what would she say to that. Somehow he cannot see her blushing at it. Her eyes are too bold, her gaze too direct, her smile too knowing.

Do all princess grow up so fast, he wonders. This princess does not show her age whenever he tries to fluster her. But perhaps he is out of practice: every girl in the north flushes giggles all too easily for him.

The dance ends and she bows her head to him in thanks. He can see that a few strands of her hair are clinging to her forehead and he is about to offer to escort her for a walk outside if she is feeling encumbered by the heat, but then the King yells loud enough to be heard over the music some nonsense about storms and songs and the princess lights up at the mention of it. Robb turn questioning eyes to her and the princess is quick to explain.

"He wants a turn of the dances of his country, the music of the stormlands." She says simply, eyes darting from his face to someone behind him. Robb nods in understanding and is not surprised when her uncle Renly who looks so much like her he could be her brother too, takes her away with a smile and a nod of the head.

Robb thinks that her uncle looks at him with eyes that know too much, but he recedes in the corner of the room t watch, choosing to ignore the warning.

The music starts and it's a different rhythm from what he's ever heard. Its heavy with drums and flutes and the beat is fast, so is the dance. The ladies turn and clap their hands, waving their shawls above their heads like sails in the wind and Robb understands: they are dancing to a storm. They don't dance in lines, they form a circle, and it's the first time Robb has seen anything like it: the inner circles moving clockwise while the outer ones dancing in the opposite direction; the effect is mesmerising, and the princess is at the heart of it – a place of honour, he supposes - dancing with her uncle. She is vivid as a lick of flame in the midst of all the dancers, and no matter how fast they move, she is right there and Robb cannot lose sight of her. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile is bright and her eyes alight with laughter as her uncle picks her up by the waist and spins her about to the beat of the music.  _I'd like to learn this dance_ , Robb thinks absently, not even noticing that Theon murmurs almost the exact same thing close to his ear. She wraps her shawl around her uncle and the spinning starts again. The many feet stamping the stone floor hard at the same time become a march, a gallop and the rhythm increases until Robb has to wonder just how can they keep up - but they do. They laugh and dance and faster and faster until the there is only movement that is almost mesmerising to watch and Robb thinks they'll either start flying or fall down. But they don't; when the music ends suddenly, with the same bang of the drums echoing around the hall, the dancers stop with it just as suddenly, right to the beat of it with a clap of their hands that echoes in the fractional silence… that silence and stillness lasts only half a breath, before the cheers rise loud and men bang their fists on the table to be heard even louder. The princess' cheeks are bright pink and her smile is full of teeth and happiness as she claps with the others and lets herself be hugged by the other ladies who flock around her as if she is beckoning them – it only then that Robb realizes she had been in the centre leading the dance, along with her uncle.

The King's cheers sound the loudest and perhaps even the most drunk, but he still seems so very careful when he beckons his daughter to give a kiss on the crown of her head. She smiles at him in a way that would make one beg for a that sort of smile every day: as if she loves him and he is the only man she'd ever smile that way for.

Out of the three of the kings children, it seems in that moment as if the princess loves her drunken father best.

One of the lords stands, a man around his sixties and he bears the coat of arms of X upon his chest, one of the oldest houses of the stormlands, Robb recalls. The man raises his glass and, smiling at the princess with yellowed teeth and merry eyes he calls for silence. When a passable semblance of it falls, the old man's voice booms.

"To our King and queen, and to the daughter they have made. To our lady, Princess Myrcella: Stormdancer, stormbreaker, heart of flame!"

The hall resounds in cheers, and the stormlords and her uncle cheer the loudest. Few people notice the look the crown prince gives his sister, or the one the queen give her daughter, and even fewer (just one person really) knows its significance. But Robb does not have eyes for the finer, more subtle plays of the night and the strained chords that bind all these people together, how they sing with tension whenever something as seemingly inconsequential as a dance happens. Robb cheers with the rest, liking the man's word and how they sound – how they make  _her_  sound - and he has eyes for none of the storm princess who bows her head ever so prettily in thanks and raises her cup to salute the man's words before taking the tiniest sip of it.

She looks happy and she looks radiant and Robb is still a boy green enough to be swayed by both easily. Stormdancer, they call her, and he likes that very much… like the princesses in stories and songs she seems larger than life in that moment.

Of course, had Robb been a bit more weathered in the game of shadows, or had he known the queen a little better (or the princess for that matter), he would have been able to guess that there was a dangerous game being played here. And he would not have been so surprised when, the next morning, the princess would be declared unavailable for breakfast and that, from that morning on, she would be spending quite a lot of time indoors, in the solar with her ladies and her mother, doing things ladies do and things that Robb knew nothing of. Nor would he have been so surprise to see that whenever she did show her face, she was caged at all sides by fluttering ladies in waiting and arm in arm with her mother the queen… and how she could hardly speak a word before the queen demanded her attention, interrupting. He would grow to learn these little details in the days ahead, and they would by turns puzzle, annoy and disturb him.

But for the time being, the night as wonderful and the princess' smile was enchanting… and he decided that, if someone was ever going to have his admiration, nobody seemed more worthy of it than the Storm Princess.

tbc...


	3. The Princess and the Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: small chapter to show some interaction between the queen and the princess. the idea is that after the feast, the queen kept her daughter way to close to herself, to avoid her making a fool of herself and her family. but one fine morning, Lord Stark invites the princess along for a ride in the godswood (who knows who suggested it, right :P) and the princess cannot say no... though her mother does not share her opinion.

_**3.** _ _The Princess and the Queen (1)_

_"Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway...You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you"_   
_\- Janet Fitch, White Oleander -_

Arya doesn't mean to catch that conversation, she honestly doesn't. She'd been scampering about and found herself in one of the ditches that was used to store hay just outside the godswood – the perfect place to hide since there is nothing but open fields for a few yards and her only cover is the low bushes around her. She'd been crawling about there, looking for the bead that had fallen off her dress but stopped her searching when she heard the voices.

They were quiet but Arya knows that is she does not make herself known she will overhear a conversation that perhaps was meant to be private.

"…I do not want you trampling about the countryside. I cannot believe your father agreed to this in the first place."

 _The queen!_  Arya thinks, panicking. The chances of making herself known now are none. If her mother knew that she appeared in front of the queen herself crawling underneath the hay… oh, there would be sore pains ahead!

"And don't you think I am not going to speak to your father about the rooms. It's ridiculous." The queen continues, irritation snapping in her voice like the lash of a whip.

"We are in the  _north_  mother. Of course it will be chillier than King's Landing even though it's the middle of summer. Did you expect the climate to warm just because the king and queen were coming?"

Arya stifles a snort. She'd liked the princess during the feast better than she had liked her the morning she arrived and she liked how the lords called her Sormdancer too – liked it because it made the crown prince wroth to hear it,

 _Now,_ listening to _that,_  Arya liked Myrcella Baratheon even more.

"Don't you mock me, girl." And the harshness of the words was no less of a threat just because it was directed at a daughter. Arya's smile melted away. She could never imagine her own mother speaking this way her or Sansa.

"I am not. I was trying to lighten you spirit."

"Do I seem to be in a mood for japes?"

The princes mumbled something that Arya didn't understand, and the queen huffed.

"And it's not so cold as you make it. I find my own rooms quite comfortable."

" _Enough_  about the room Myrcella! I so dislike it when you play the fool."

The princess said nothing, and really, even if she had Arya was far enough not to hear it – honestly she shouldn't eavesdrop, but she was stuck between a rock and a hard place here and there was nowhere she could go. She couldn't just puff out of the hay in front of the princess and the queen now, could she. Mother would have her hide! And she felt so 'shamed too, for doing something her father would for sure scold her for. It was unseemly, and not just because it wasn't what a lady did, really...

"Be on your guard Myrcella."

There was a heavy sigh. "He is father's dearest friend, mother." The princess said tiredly, as if this was not the first time this argument had been hashed between them.

And so it is that Arya stops drowning in her own thoughts and sharpens her ears. Because they are not just speaking with each other, they are speaking with each other about  _father_. And it's almost immediate, the way it freezes her in place. All the realm knows the queen mislikes her father – Robb had said so and so had Theon.

"Everyone who isn't us is the enemy, girl. Why is it so hard for you to grasp that?"

"Perhaps because I'm not as dim-witted as Joffrey." And there is a bite to the princess' voice that that Arya had not imagined the princess capable of, but that makes her smile none the less.

So she is not as sweet and always charming as she appears! Arya finds that she likes that almost as much as she likes what the princess' words mean: Joffrey is a dimwit, and even his sister knows it! Ha! But then the princess goes on and it's hard to believe she is only six and ten when she speaks. She sounds like father and mother and Robb and Jon… She sounds grown and sure and unshakable.

"Careful girl, my patience has limits." The queen warned, her voice strained.

"And I have seen the limits of your patience." was the immediate reply.

Silence came after that, the kind of silence that Arya recognised: heavy and crackling with things unsaid and things past. It was the kid of silence she felt sometimes between mother and Jon whenever they were alone. It was the kind of silence filled with nasty things.

"You asked that we speak honestly to each other. This is me being honest, mother." The princess said then, sounding softer, conciliatory. She said no more and the silence stretched a little while longer. It was only when the queen spoke again that Arya realized the princess had been waiting for leave to continue.

"Go on." The queen said stiffly, as if unwillingly.

"No one can survive in this world alone,  _no one_  - least of all a King. The King needs whatever friends he can get and so will Joffrey, because no matter how it seems to you, grandfather is not going to live forever. You might remind your son of that, the next time he decides to insult the heir of Winterfell."

The queen snorts. "Joff did not insult anyone. It was Robb Stark that was craven enough not to want to take his challenge."

And suddenly Arya knows what they speak of. Joffrey-the-shit had dared Robb to spar with live steel the other day… Robb should have taken the challenge, crown prince of no, Arya thinks angrily. He should have shown that prick what it means to challenge Winterfell. He should have hacked him a good one, fed the chunk of the prince to Greywind.

"Oh mother, had Robb Stark taken my foolish brother on his word, he would have ended up making the heir to the throne bleed in the mud, and that is something he could not do. He was wise and Joff was foolish and arrogant, insulting the boy whose political favour he may need one day." The princess sounds as irritated as her mother does and listening to them, there is no doubt in Arya's mind that these two are very much alike ins some things, as they seem to be different in others.

"Mind your insolent tongue, girl: that is your brother you speak of. He will be your  _king_  one day." The queen said, sounding angrier by the moment.

"You might remind him of that. Joff seems to be of the opinion that King means living in a world without consequences."

The queen huffed. "I wonder where he gets that idea."

But her tone was not questioning. The queen was mocking something or someone… Arya was not sure.

"You should teach him better than that." The princess says softly. Whatever the queen had meant that Arya had not understood, the princess obviously had. "And you should not spoil him as you do."

"He is my son." The queen said suddenly, strongly and with a tone that brokered an order, not a statement. The princess must have been as stunned by it as Arya was, because she didn't speak for several moments.

"Of course, mother." The princess said softly. An agreement, a submission. It sounded more, Arya thought, as if the princess had just said  _'as you wish, your grace'_.

"You will not be going in the outing tomorrow." The queen said, in that same commanding tone.

Only this time, the princess was not so quick to defer. "I will, because the king commanded me and out host invited me personally. You know it would be unbearably rude for me to refuse."

"Make an excuse of it Myrcella. Use that mind you so like to brag about." The queen cut in.

"Anything short of a broken limb will sound trivial mother, and you know it."

"You will make a fool of yourself, as you did that first night. Gallivanting about like some common wench." The distaste on the queen's tone was almost bordering on disgust. Arya was shocked by it, by how a mother could be so blunt to her own daughter.

"Really mother. Let's not start with the insults, they are redundant by now." The princess said, sounding so utterly bored that Arya had to wonder… was this really that common an occurrence.

"I tell you girl, I will not tolerate you out of my sight for a moment."

"I'm not a child anymore!" and the princess sounded angry for the very first time since this conversation had started. "And I have been living out of your sight for four years."

There was such resentment there, in those words, in the princess' tone. There was resentment that spanned for years and had the depth of a lifetime – one that Arya could scarcely comprehend.

These people were far more garbled and screwed up than Arya had first thought.

"And that will soon be coming to an end." The queen said, and it sounded more like a threat than a fact.

"Yes I know; the moment I marry, I shall leave the capitol for ever, gods willing." And more than hopeful, the princess sounded challenging; as sharp as her mother had.

"We shall see about that." the queen hissed… And the edge of danger vibrated between them, more alive than the song of steel had they been using swords to fight each other.

"I suppose we shall have to." The princess countered just as fast, just as hard.

The silence lasted for only a few heartbeats.

"You are such a fool, child." The queen said, sounding a little less threatening, a little more tired.

"Perhaps I am." The princess admitted softly, and it didn't sound like a jape at all. "Perhaps I'm simply not so much like you as you would like me to be… I am sorry if that gives you grief mother. I promise you, it was never my intent."

She sounds apologetic enough, as if she is at fault, or if she is trying to make peace – though Arya didn't know which was it.

The queen sighed. "Perhaps you're too much like me, and that is why we cannot meet in the middle."

Arya heard the smile in the princess' tone when she next spoke. "That does sound rather better, doesn't it?"

"I imagine so…" the queen admitted. And then. "I don't trust Ned Stark, Myrcella. The man is a fool for honour."

What?! Arya bristled and grit her teeth. That little snake!

"That is unkind, mother, even for you." The princess said, but she did not sound angry. She sounded wearied. Arya's opinion of her plundered to the dirt once more.

"I don't care. I want you nowhere near the man. Or that son of his that cannot take his eyes off you." The queen said, with suck contempt that Arya felt her blood boil. Who was she, a Lannister, to look down on either her father or her brother. A family of prideful people without honour who, at most, can only  _buy_  with their gold the respect people won't give them!

"That son you speak of is the heir of Winterfell and future heir of the North. He is a kind boy and has all the makings of an honourable man and if he pays me any attention, than I shall be flattered and honoured as it befits my station." The princess said stiffly, and it sounded like it was Arya talking.

"Have you taken a shine to the boy, Myrcella?" and it sounded almost like a taunt. Arya could almost imagine the queen's smirk, that mocking cold gaze. "Let me remind you, that you're bound for either Highgarden or Lannisport."

"I know where I am bound for better than you do, mother. After all, wombs are made to be sold, as you've always told me." the princess said with such coldness that it rivalled the queen's.

"You'd do well to remember it. It will make your life easier to bear your place in mind."

"As you have done?"

"Careful girl. You may be my daughter but I'm still your queen." And the air vibrated with a threat so real that Arya could hardly believe the ones speaking were mother and daughter. One moment they sounded like it, the next they sounded like vicious enemies.

"You are, your grace. So allow me, please, to remind your royal highness that not every one of Tywin Lannister's enemies is mine own. But what am I saying. Let me put it more cleanly: Ned Stark  _loves_  my father and he has enough patience even to be courteous to you, so…"

"You forget yourself entirely sometimes girl." the queen said with irritation that bordered on anger. "Do you think bonds of friendship rule this world?"

"Oh, worry not, I will keep a careful eye and a sharp mind because unlike your precious son, I actually  _like_  using my brain. So if you truly think that I will answer the generous hospitality of the King's most dear friend with bad grace and cold manners, just because you don't like the man, you severely mistake me, mother."

Arya found herself speechless, thoughtless. She may not have understood all those words, but she got the meaning cleanly enough, and the princess' tone was as final as her mother's was.

Was she even allowed to do that?

"You will do as you're bid Myrcella."

And here came the crux of the discussion. Arya knew it, she could  _feel_  it, even though she could hardly understand the breadth of it! But she knew enough to understand that that this was what the whole relationship between the queen and her daughter was like, always; just like hers and Sansa's centred around them not liking each other and fighting over Arya not being enough of a lady; just Arya's and her mother's centred around love and frustration and disobedience over small things.

For the queen and the princess,  _this_  was it: the queen had just given an order, and Arya… she was almost  _anxious_  to hear what the princess would say to that.

"I will do as my sense and conscience dictate, mother. Good day."

"Don't you turn away from me, girl!"

"The king sent for me quite a while ago, your grace. He is not exactly known for his patience."

Arya dared a look from through the buses and the hay. She saw the princess turn from her mother and walk towards the keep. She saw the deep frown on the princess' face, the way her eyes shined with unshed tears – Arya was surprised to see them there, she had not heard them in the princess' voice at all: she had sounded so unwavering and strong. But now she saw that the princess had her hands fisted tightly at her sides, her knuckles were white from strain and she even saw the fine tremble of them as the princess walked away.

Arya waited till she could no longer see neither the princess nor the queen before she got out of the hay. She didn't even bother to clean herself from all of it, instead choosing to run to the stables. She had to tell someone, she just  _had to_. There is some hilarity in her now that was not there before she heard the princess speak to the queen. But she had to tell any one of her brothers because they had all thought that the queen was strong and cold and harsh and that nobody could ever say no to her… and maybe they were right, but that was because they had all thought that the princess was some silly girl like Sansa who liked nothing better than to sing and dance and laugh and sew all day. But that was a lie, and Arya had found them out.

Oh it was true enough that the queen was everything that she seemed to be: she looked as powerful as the king looked stupid, and she looked about Winterfell as if it was a miller's cottage and Arya hated her for it. Nobody ever even dared look the ice queen in the eye though, because they were afraid of her… everyone but her own daughter, who seemed to match the queen well enough, where nobody else could not. The king himself preferred to ignore his wife instead of facing her. But not their daughter though. Not the princess!

Arya laughed, descending the stairs two by two. She found Jon and Theon first, and when she saw Jon's face, so like their father's, Arya stopped to wonder if it was best just to keep it all to herself. Nobody would ever thank her for going around peeping into other people's conversations, but… but someone  _had_  to know that this lion queen was not as scary as they had first thought. That there was someone who was not afraid of her, not afraid to deny her and tease her and make her as human as the rest.

Nobody could ever not bend in front of the ice queen – but her daughter was stronger and smarter and better: Arya thought so, at least.

Someone  _had_  to know!

So Arya huddled in close to Jon and Theon (though Theon was as much of an idiot as always and barely let her talk at first) and started telling them all the conversation she heard, word for word as she'd heard it, as she remembered it. Theon laughed some places, Jon frowned most places and that was usual, but they both were so serious by the end. By the time she was done even Jon had forgotten to tell her not to eavesdrop, though Arya knew he would remember later, and that father would take issue with it and so would Robb.

"I like the princess better now." Arya declared, though that didn't mean much, since she hadn't liked her  _at all_  in the beginning (and maybe just a little bit after the feast, because Bran liked her, so she could not have been that bad). But Arya decided that, if the queen was so bent on not trusting anyone, then Arya would be the same, and would not trust the queen at all. Not even her daughter. But she could like her though! Because if she had the nerve to stand up to her mother, than the princess deserved it, even if just a little.

o

tbc:::

1 G. R. R. Marting reference there, a short story of his, that one.


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